


you put the boom-boom into my heart

by santiagone



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Humor, Single Parent AU, basically all of the aus are here mmkay, but also one night stand au, but also teacher au, but no angst to be seen you're very welcome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-16
Updated: 2016-07-16
Packaged: 2018-07-24 07:37:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7499682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/santiagone/pseuds/santiagone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What’s there to do when you realise you’ve just slept with your daughter’s teacher? Why, fall in love with him, of course. (Well. Not if she can help it.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	you put the boom-boom into my heart

**Author's Note:**

> Title courtesy of Wham!, naturally. Hope you enjoy!

 

“Just to clarify,” she pants, struggling for breath as he presses fervent kisses down her neck. Her fingers thread into his curls, back arching into the wall she’s pressed against. “Is this a one time thing?”

Fitz pauses, straightening up to look her in the eye. His forehead presses against hers and it feels weirdly intimate for casual sex.

“Yeah. This is—if you want—”

“No,” she says quickly, hands sliding under his shirt. He licks his lips, eyes dark, and she swallows quickly. “I can’t—This can’t be permanent. I have someone waiting for me at home.”

“Right.” He doesn’t look disappointed, does he? He can’t do—they’ve known each other for all of one night.

Because Jemma Simmons doesn’t do one night stands. She doesn't do heated kisses pressed up against a wall, roaming hands, breathless pants. Jemma Simmons does warm cookies and days filled with sunshine and packets of brightly coloured crayons.

But when a pair of soulful blue eyes can’t look away from you across the bar… well, who’s a girl to blame?

“Jemma?” he says hesitantly, and she realises she’s zoned out.

“Fitz,” she says, coaxing his hand to the bottom of her blouse, “Kiss me now.”

 

 

 

Morning afters are the worst. Or so Hunter says. But when Jemma wakes up, there’s sunlight streaming through the curtains, and a phone that’s singing _Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go_. And there’s a very warm, very empty spot next to her on the bed.

She blinks, stretches, and on cue Fitz walks into the room. His hair is dripping water onto his collar and he smells vaguely like toothpaste and aftershave.

“Nice alarm,” she says.

Fitz rolls his eyes. In the daylight, wearing a blue top and a tie, he looks kind of adorable. Definitely not like the sort of man who’d made her groan his name last night.

“You can thank my friend Daisy for that.”

Jemma smiles at him and sits up, wrapping the sheet around her. “Do I have Daisy to thank for last night as well?”

Fitz’s cheeks dust pink. “Um—no. That… That was all me.”

“Well it was lovely,” she informs brightly. Who says chivalry is dead? “Do you have any more _Wham!_ songs to subject me to? Or am I free to escape the premises?”

Fitz gives her a shy smile. He really _is_ cuter than she gave him credit for. “Well, you can escape if you want, but I think there’s still some pancake mix left in my pantry…”

“I can endure a little more of _Wham!,_ ” she decides, and he grins.

 

 

 

“Tell me, Fitz,” Jemma says, spearing a strawberry with her fork and grinning at him from across the breakfast bar. “Do you draw whipped cream faces on _every_ pancake you give a girl?”

“Only the ones I’ve slept with,” he shrugs, and then freezes, pink again. “I mean to say—no. I’ve never done this before.”

“Whipped cream faces or one night stands?”

“Both,” he admits.

She blinks, and promptly reaches over to steal one of his strawberries. The sleeve of her shirt (correction: Fitz’s shirt— _someone_ had been a bit too enthusiastic and ripped her dress last night) dangles in the pot of yogurt, and she wipes it on his nose.

“Hey!” he complains, reaching over to smear whipped cream on her cheek without missing a beat.

“You’re cute,” she laughs, “and you’re brilliant at sex. But I can’t stay."

“Right,” he says thoughtfully, “You have someone waiting for you at home."

“You remembered.”

He blinks at her. “‘Course I do. I remember everything about last night.”

Impulsively, she leans over the table and presses a kiss to his forehead.

“You’re sweet, Fitz. But I should go.”

“Yeah,” he says, and she pretends not to notice his disappointment. Instead, she fetches her torn dress and her purse and her jacket. He’s insistent on walking her the entire five steps to the door, where she lingers for just a moment.

“I’m still wearing your shirt.”

He blushes. “S’okay. It suits you.”

“Goodbye, Fitz. Thank you for the _Wham!_ and the pancake faces and the excellent sex..”

“Bye, Jemma,” he laughs, and he’s finally stopped blushing at the word sex. She’s been a main character in his character development story, she realises with pride. And to her surprise, she feels a little bit sad as she walks away.

 

 

 

“Mum!”

Clara throws herself at Jemma as soon as the door opens, and Jemma grins and leans down to give her daughter a fierce hug.

“How’s it been here, Clara? Take all your vitamins? Brush your teeth? Go to bed on time?”

“Done, done, and done,” says Bobbi, rounding the corner. Her eyes immediately fall on Fitz’s shirt and her messy bun—but she doesn’t say anything.

“Hunter let her eat all the sweets, didn’t he?” Jemma remarks, rolling her eyes. There’s a defensive shout from the kitchen, and Clara giggles, burying her head into Jemma’s neck.

“You smell weird,” she remarks, wrinkling her nose.

Hunter pops his head in the doorway, mercifully in time to save Jemma. “Clara, c’mon, I’ve lost all your stuff and we have to find it before your mum gets mad.”

Clara clambers from Jemma’s grasp, Hunter winks, and then they’re both gone in a whirlwind of laughter.

Bobbi folds her arms and fixes Jemma with a knowing look.

“It’s nothing serious,” Jemma protests, pulling out her hair elastic and struggling to retie it. Bobbi gestures and Jemma tilts her head obediently to let Bobbi tie her hair for her.

“Jemma, you’re glowing. ‘Nothing serious’ doesn’t affect people like that. You gonna call him?”  

“I didn’t even get his number,” she sighs. “I could tell he wanted to give it to me, but…”

“You don’t want to get attached,” Bobbi says knowingly. “Not every boy is like Clara’s dad, Jemma.”

“I know,” Jemma says begrudgingly. “Ouch!”

“Sorry. Pulled a little too tight.” Bobbi steps back and smiles. “Was it at least good?”

Jemma sighs (not _wistfully_ —she refuses to be wistful). “It was brilliant. Although rather unexpected when I woke up the next morning. He seemed… very innocent.”

“Shy on the streets, sexy in the sheets?”

She laughs. “You sound like Lance.”

Bobbi squeezes her shoulder. “I’m glad you had fun last night, Jemma. You deserve it.”

“Thanks, Bobbi.”

 

 

 

“We’ve got a new teacher for the rest of the year. We met him yesterday. He’s really nice,” Clara says earnestly over toast the next morning.

Jemma raises her eyebrows and passes a glass of orange juice over. “Is he? What happened to Mr. Coulson?”

“He said he was retiring,” says Clara matter-of-factly, crunching into her toast, “And he said he was going to Tahiti.”

“Good for Mr. Coulson,” she laughs. “Eat with your mouth closed, please.”

“Sorry.”

And really, that’s when Jemma should have suspected it. A teacher opening? _Really_? But she’s far too busy rushing around the house and scrambling for her things, stopping to help Clara tie her shoelaces and then eventually realising that they’re going to be rather late if they don’t hurry up.

“Come on,” Clara whines, bouncing on the tip of her toes, smile wide and pleading. (Unfortunately Jemma knows just who Clara inherited the puppy dog eyes from: herself.) “I want you to meet him!”

And Jemma Simmons has never really been able to deny her daughter anything, so she lets Clara pull her into the brightly coloured classroom. There’s a figure by the whiteboard in a blue blazer, scrawling the plans for the day in the stomach of a carefully drawn monkey.

“Mum,” announces Clara boldly, as the figure turns around, “Meet Mr. Fitz.”

 _Fuck_.

 

 

 

“What are you doing here?” Jemma hisses. They’re still in the classroom, but Clara’s run out to go meet her friends, and Fitz (pancake face, _Wham!_ listening, very good at sex Fitz) has shut the door. He leans against it, eyes wide.

“I _work_ here. What are you doing here?”

“My daughter attends school here,” Jemma fires back, crossing her arms and wondering just how she’s managed to get herself into this situation. “You never told me you were a teacher!”

“You never told me you had a daughter!” he exclaims.

“It’s not exactly something that crops up during… that kind of _situation_ ,” she says awkwardly, suddenly reminding herself that she is in the middle of a primary school.

“Okay. Okay, fine.” Fitz blinks, adjusting his collar like he’s still trying to make sense of it all. “So when you said you had someone waiting for you back home…”

“I meant my daughter, yes,” Jemma sighs, massaging her temple.

“Right. This was _not_ how I thought my day was going to go.”

“Okay, no, I have a compromise,” she says placatingly. “We keep things _strictly_ professional. Teacher interviews, report cards, whatever you need. And we forget _completely_ about the other night. It never happened. Clara mustn't ever find out.”

Fitz pauses, eyebrows furrowed, worrying at his lip. “Okay. Yeah—okay.”

“Good,” she sighs, exhaling in relief. “Thank you, Fitz.”

 

 

 

For a while, things pass normally. Jemma kisses Clara on the nose, drops her off at the door, and carefully walks away before Fitz can see her. She washes Fitz’s shirt, and then shoves it right back to the bottom of her closet. She even makes pancakes again.

And then—then she’s at the supermarket. Minding her own business, browsing through the confectionery aisle… when she accidentally turns and shoves a whole row of boxes off the shelf.

“No,” she moans, leaning down to begin the long and arduous task of painstakingly stacking each box back in it’s rightful place.

“Jemma?”

Her head snaps up, mouth dropping in surprise. “Mr. Fitz?”

He’s standing there, awkwardly holding a green basket, this time dressed in plaid layered with a cardigan. Not that she’s been noticing his outfits. His mouth is twisted into an amused, crooked smile.

“I think you know me well enough to call me Fitz,” he offers, and she blushes. What happened to him being cute, and stuttery, and shy? Or is that just a post-sex thing?

“Sorry—um, what are you doing here?”

“Shopping,” he says bemusedly, and before she can say anything he’s set down his basket and dropped down to help her with the boxes.

“Oh, you don’t have to—”

“My friend Daisy is a klutz,” he laughs. “I know from experience it goes much quicker if you have some help.”

“You mention this Daisy a lot,” Jemma says, chancing a smile in his direction.

It’s Fitz’s turn to flush. “She’s kind of my defence mechanism. When I’m talking to pretty girls, I mean.”

Her eyes fly to his. “Fitz—”

“No, I know, strictly professional, I’m sorry—” he rambles, grimacing, bright red. “That wasn’t a—a come on to you, or anything. Just a compliment. I swear.”

“I believe you,” she says, and funnily enough, she actually does. This would be a whole lot easier if he weren’t so cute.

 _Last Christmas, I gave you my heart,_  
_And the very next day, you gave it away,_  
_This year, to save me from tears…_

Jemma’s eyes catch Fitz’s at the same time.

“Is that…”

“ _Wham!_ ,” he finishes, and she’s giggling before she can stop herself. He grins, wide. “It’s like we’re cursed,” he continues, “we’ll never be able to speak again without the soft undertones of _Wham!_ punctuating out every word.”

“Oh dear,” she laughs, “The world really is against us, isn’t it?””

He grin turns a little softer. “Obviously.”

“Look,” she says, glancing down at the boxes, “I’m sorry. I was probably a little harsh, back at the school. I was very surprised—but that’s hardly an excuse.”

He shakes his head vehemently. “I don’t hold anything against you.”

“I know you don’t. But—I’d like to be kinder. You deserve that.” She turns and places a box on the shelf. “And Clara deserves a mum who doesn’t flinch every time she sees her teacher.”

Fitz’s brow furrows. “You flinch when you see me?”

“The first rule about the Simmons family,” she declares, grinning madly and plucking a box from his hands. Their fingertips graze, and she most certainly doesn’t care. Not one bit. “We over-exaggerate. A lot.”

 

 

 

Somehow, Fitz ends up helping her carry all her groceries to her car. She stifles her laugh behind her car keys when he trips on the curb and just about goes flying head first.

“I’m not sure you’re safe around people,” she teases, “Let alone my daughter.”

He dumps the bags unceremoniously in her boot, about to protest—except there’s a sharp _crunch_ , and Fitz grimaces.

“I’ve ruined your eggs. Maybe you’re right.”

Despite the fact that Jemma’s been planning to make a lemon sponge on this day for about three weeks now, she strangely can’t find it in herself to be annoyed.

“I was teasing, Fitz. Clara raves about how brilliant you are every other day.”

“Every other day? I’m losing my touch.”

She rolls her eyes. How on Earth had she missed his dorky nature when she’d tumbled into bed with him those few nights ago? Strictly professional, she reminds herself, and she allows her smile to dim a few watts. (Only a few, mind you.)

“Thank you for your help, Fitz. I’m going to have _Wham!_ songs stuck in my head for weeks.”

“It was all my pleasure,” he smirks, slipping as he tries to lean on her car, and if it weren’t for her whole Strictly Professional speech she’d almost believe he’s flirting with her. She slips inside her car and he takes a step back as she turns on the engine. Right before she pulls out, he taps at her window and she rolls it down with a curious look.

“Yes, Fitz?”

“I’m sorry about your eggs.” He looks so truly distraught at the thought of cracking her eggs that she has to laugh, even though she promised herself she wouldn’t.

“It’s alright, Fitz.” And, before she can stop herself, “Why don’t you bring me around a replacement carton tonight? You have all Clara’s residential details, you know where I am.”

Fitz smiles bashfully, looking surprised but pleased as he leans through her car window. “Okay, Jemma. Miss Simmons. Jemma.”

And as she’s driving away, pretending not to notice his victory dance in her rear view mirror, she wants to drop her head on the steering wheel and groan. What happened to strictly professional?

 

 

 

She’s opening the door before the second knock, smiling (definitely not nervously) at Fitz, who stands on her doorstep. He holds up a plastic bag and grins sheepishly.

“I brought your eggs?”

She lets him in, carefully guiding him around the lego and to her kitchen table, where she has all the ingredients set out for her sponge cake.

“This is what you needed eggs for?” he asks bemusedly, immediately making himself at home on a bar stool. She shrugs and pulls a bowl out from under the sink.

“Are you any good at baking, Mr. Fitz?” she asks playfully.

“Only the bake-until-it’s-burned kind,” he says doubtfully.

Impulsively (damn that impulse), she throws a packet of sugar at him. To her surprise, he actually catches it, and he must notice her shock because he gives her a smug grin and makes a Very Big Deal about opening the packet.

“Okay, _show-off_. If you’re so good at this, come and help me bake this.” Which she really doesn’t mean to suggest, but it’s too late to retract her offer, and before she knows it he’s invading her personal space and reaching over her for the milk. He smells the same as he did That Night (yes, she’s capitalising that night as an important event in her life, sue her—it was good sex, okay?), of fresh cologne and spearmint toothpaste and a smell she’s come to associate with Clara’s school.

“You okay?” he says, but if the look in his eyes says anything he knows _exactly_ what he’s done. Strictly professional, she recites, and swats his arm with the wooden spoon.

“Perfectly fine, thank you.”

And it’s much in that fashion until somewhere along the line, they’ve ended up with flour smeared on their cheeks and in their hair, and a misshapen lemon sponge sitting in the oven.

“Where’s Clara?” Fitz asks. He’s sitting on her couch with the bowl in his lap, licking the spoon.

“Gone out for a sleepover.”

“Ah.” He falls silent, biting at his lip, like he’s unsure whether he should continue or not. “Does she… know I’m here?”

Jemma inhales. “No.”

“Oh.” He frowns into the bowl, and he looks so adorable right then she almost does it. She knows if she kisses him right now he’ll taste like lemon sponge batter and dry flour, knows precisely that he’ll stumble backwards and she’ll crawl up on him, place her leg in between his, and snog him until he’s making incomprehensible noises.

 _Strictly professional_ , she reminds herself, and she doesn’t do any of those things. Instead, the timer beeps and she leaps out of her seat.

 

 

 

“What’s with all the flour?” Bobbi asks, dropping her bags on the floor and immediately heading for the fridge.

“Um, nothing,” Jemma says nonchalantly.

“Jemma, you’re the worst liar I’ve ever seen,” Bobbi says dryly, pouring herself a glass of orange juice. “It was that guy, wasn’t it? From your one night stand that you wouldn’t talk about?”

She scoffs. “I don’t do one night stands, Bobbi.”

“Has it turned into a two night stand then?”

Jemma blushes at Bobbi’s interest. “No! Just… he came over today,” she relents. “And we did some baking. That’s all.”

“But you want more,” the other states knowingly.

“No, I don’t. Clara—”

“Is a mature, intelligent little girl,” Bobbi finishes. “She got that from her mom. She’ll understand.”

Jemma doesn’t look at Bobbi. She can’t afford to think this way.

“You know what Clara said to me, the other day?” Bobbi asks, arms crossed, expression kind. “She kept pointing out guys on the television, asking me whether I thought they suited you.”

Jemma can’t help but laugh, and Bobbi reaches over and squeezes her hand.

“Clara’s ready. It’s just a matter of whether you are.”

 

 

 

Clara’s suited up in a long dress that's tangled around her ankles, a crown nestled carefully in her ringlets, a toy bow and arrow slung over her shoulder, but she’s still fast as ever, tugging Jemma down the hallway with a wide grin and pointing out various stalls. She has to admit, a book fair is a very nice idea for a school. And she has an inkling suspicion that a particular Scot may have something to do with it.

Just as she’s thinking about him, Clara’s waving excitedly at a familiar figure across the room. “Mr. Fitz!”

“Hi Clara,” he smiles. “Jemma.”

She ducks her head and listens to Clara ramble on about some book she saw on the way over. Fitz listens, clearly rapt, and she can’t help but soften a little at the look on his face.

“Mum,” says Clara, tugging on Jemma’s hand, “I’m going to say hi to Finn and Anastasia, okay?”

“Okay,” she agrees, kissing Clara on the forehead and nudging her off. When she straightens back up, Fitz is already smiling at her. “What?”

“Nothing,” he says. “Clara’s Susan Pevensie, huh?”

“Lucy Pevensie, actually,” Jemma corrects. “I tried to tell her that Susan was the one with the bow, but she’s set on being Lucy and she desperately wants to join archery classes over the summer.”

“Naturally,” Fitz chuckles, and she beams at him. Out of nowhere, Bobbi and Hunter appear at her shoulders.

“Jemma,” says Hunter, “who’s terrible idea was it to host a book fair? And where’s Clara?”

“Don’t mind him,” Bobbi tells Fitz, rolling her eyes. “He never learnt how to read.”

“Oi!”

“This is Bobbi and Hunter,” Jemma interjects. “They’re good friends of mine.”

“And babysitters on occasion,” fills in Hunter.

“Which is what we’re here for, incidentally. We’re taking Clara tonight,” nods Bobbi.

“But—I never—”

“We’re doing you a service,” Hunter declares. “Also I love Clara more than you. Sorry.”

Jemma’s still bewildered, so Bobbi gives her a knowing look and says, “Remember what we talked about that night.”

 

 

 

It’s late now, long after everybody’s gone home. The stalls still stand, but mostly everything’s cleared up save for Fitz’s lone stall. The moon’s shining and the stars twinkle, and the fairy lights strung along his stall illuminate his face nicely. They’re still here though, her and Fitz. It sort of feels kind of wrong being at the school without Clara, but Jemma’s assured in the fact that Bobbi and Hunter will take care of her.

“I’m probably boring you to tears,” Fitz says, looking bashfully apologetic as he loads as he dumps books into a box.

“On the contrary,” she smiles. “You’re weirdly interesting, actually. Besides, I’m choosing to stay and help.”

Fitz scrunches up his nose. “I can’t tell if that’s an insult or a compliment.”

“Take it as both,” she laughs, dropping the last book into a box. “Come on, let’s bring these to your car.”

He hoists the box up, groaning and staggering with it’s weight, and she snickers even though she almost drops her box immediately after. When they finally make it to his car, they deflate against the bumper, and Jemma feels a tired, content sort of warmth in her stomach that she hasn’t felt in a long time.

“How many stars do you reckon there are?” Fitz asks, out of nowhere. She can feel his gaze fixed on her, but she stares up at the sky thoughtfully.

“Well, that’s the question, isn’t it? No one knows.” She smiles in spite of herself. “Clara likes to tell me there’s a bazillion of them.”

Fitz laughs quietly. “She’s probably right.”

“Oh, she’s convinced she’s always right. About everything and everyone. Anything, really.”

“Sounds like someone I know,” Fitz teases, and she finally looks over at him. He’s still watching her, something warm in his eyes, and she averts her gaze quickly.

“Yes, well. _I’m_ always right.” _Not about everything_ , she reminds herself. But she doesn’t say it. _Strictly professional, Jemma_.

“Okay, well, Miss Right,” Fitz grins, sliding off the car bumper and extending a hand out to her. She eyes it warily and he rolls his eyes. “C’mon, we’ve done worse, remember?”

“I’m not scared of grabbing your hand, I’m scared of what comes after it,” she jokes.

“Haha, very funny. Seriously. Come with me.”

She finally takes his out-stretched hand. He’s warm, just like she knew he would be. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

 

 

 

Which is how they end up back at his book stall—except this time, they’re surrounded by blankets, a few more fairy lights, and have tubs of frozen yogurt in their grasps. Jemma digs into hers and makes an exaggerated noise.

“Heavenly.”

“Told you so,” Fitz grins, waggling his eyebrows.

“Do you do this for every girl?” she teases. “Sit under the stars with frozen yogurt?”

She expects him to say: _“No, just the ones I’ve slept with._ ”

Instead, he says, “No, just the ones I like.”

Jemma glances at him. Her heart’s suddenly in her throat. She can’t taste the frozen yogurt anymore. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Fitz stares down at his tub, swirling his yogurt around with his plastic spoon. “Dunno,” he mumbles. “I just—you said you wanted to keep this professional. But then we keep doing this. Hanging out, or you invite me to your house, or… I don’t know, moments. Like—like this! Is this…” He blinks, features scrunching, so adorable she can’t decide whether to slap him or kiss him. “Is this a date? Or is it, like, a thing friends do? Or are we on a super friendly, super strange, strictly professional excursion?”

“Professional _excursion_?” she giggles, and he’s blushing.

“I’m being put on the spot here, okay?”

She motions graciously with her spoon. Yoghurt flies off and lands on the grass. “Continue, then.”

“I’m just confused, Jemma,” he admits, eyes earnest. She’s suddenly reminded of just why she chose to sleep with him on that fateful night. “And also a little bit guilty, because every time I look at you I keep seeing that night…”

“Men,” she sighs.

“No, I mean, more than that! Just the way you kissed me, or the way you weren’t afraid to say what you’re thinking, like you are now, or—”

“Fitz,” she says, cheeks turning a pleased pink, “I was kidding.”

“Oh. Of course.”

“So…” She takes a small breath and hovers anxiously. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying… I really like you. And I understand that maybe this is kind of weird with me teaching Clara, but I did loads of research over the weekend and lots of parents teach their own kids at school—in a way it’d almost be like home-schooling, you know? And if it doesn’t, you know, work out—well, I won’t be teaching her forever, and I would never _ever_ take it out on Clara because—”

She’s kissing him. He drops his yogurt tub and his hands slide up and into her hair. He doesn’t taste like lemon sponge, but he tastes like frozen yogurt and she is completely okay with that. (Especially seeing as Fitz is a phenomenal kisser, not that she’d _ever_ tell him that.) She’s panting and feeling quite dizzy when she pulls away, but she’s also kind of (endearingly) infuriated at his smug, dazed smile.

“So that’s a yes then?”

“Shut up,” she tells him, and pulls him in again. He shuts up. She could get used to this kind of strictly professional.

 

 

 

 _Wake me up, before you go-go_ _  
_ _‘Cause I’m not plannin’ on going solo_.

“Fitz?” Jemma groans, rolling over and jabbing at his chest. “Are you ever going to change your alarm?”

“Nah,” says Fitz. “It reminds me of you, you know.”

“Ugh,” she groans, hiding under her pillow and pretending to be exasperated. They both know she’s smiling, cheeks pink, freckles accentuated by her grin. “Go away. You can drop Clara off at Luke’s today.”

“Luke?” says Fitz, sounding alarmed. “A boy’s house?”

“She’s a little girl, Fitz,” she retorts, voice muffled by the amount of pillows. “And Luke’s teaching her how to roller skate, apparently.”

“Well, _you_ know what happens when you get involved with a teacher.”

“Ugh, Fitz!” She finally surfaces from her mound of pillows to pull a face. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t,” he laughs, leaning down and pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth. “Do you need anything while I’m out?”

“Whipped cream. You used our last can all up with your stupid pancake faces."

“You _love_ my pancake faces.”

“No I don’t. Now go away. I’m sleeping.”

“Okay, okay.” The bed sinks on her side and she knows he’s gotten up. Just as she’s snuggling back into the covers, eyes closed, she hears, “Do you want me to wake you up before I go-go?”

“ _Fitz!_ ”


End file.
